


Atonement

by iamisaac



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-03
Updated: 2015-01-03
Packaged: 2018-03-05 03:26:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3103796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iamisaac/pseuds/iamisaac





	Atonement

_**Harry Potter: Severus/Harry**_  
Harry Potter  
Severus/Harry  
PG13  
 _Post DH – not DH compliant, obviously, given the pairing_  
807 words

  
_These were men who saw life as it is, yet they died despairing. No glory, no gallant last words. Only their eyes, filled with confusion, questioning “Why?” I do not think they asked why they were dying, but why they had ever lived._

He hasn't died, but he's wished that he was dead, many times. It is hard to believe that there is good in the world when you have seen people tortured and killed because of an accident of birth. Hard to imagine happiness when you have watched your friends die because of their support of you. When you, yourself, have blood on your hands.

He shuts himself away. He shuts himself away and will not allow even his closest friends to see him. He is tainted, and they must build themselves a new life, away from the pressure of being Harry Potter's supporters. He has thought of changing his name, his looks, of making a new life for himself. But what good would that do, when what he wants to run away from lives on in his mind, countless agonising memories which play over and over in his head?

He allows me in because he never cared for me. He allows me access because he knows that I, too, have looked into the darkest secrets of humanity; that I, too, am scarred. He allows me in because I do not show him pity, do not tiptoe quietly around his depression and his guilt. He wants punishment for his sins, he wants to atone for those who died in his name – for those he hurt, for those whose lives he wrecked simply by Being. He allows me in because the physical pain that I inflict permits him momentarily to forget the mental anguish.

“Potter.”

He opens the door to let me enter. His face is pinched and wan; dark purple shadows lie under his eyes, speaking of night after night of sleeplessness.

“Come in.” His voice is hoarse and creaky from under-use. He spends days alone, speaking to no one. The few words he exchanges with me may be the only time he speaks at all.

“Undress.” We do not deal in preliminaries, the Potter boy and I. This is no time for meaningless chatter. He slips his robes from his shoulders, allowing them to fall messily to his feet. “Kneel.”

“Yes;” and the word is just a breath on the air.

He sinks to his knees, his head bowed. He is young, and broken, and I can not - **must not** \- pity him.

“Kiss the floor.”

It is penance. Penance for being The Chosen One; penance for being human and despairing. He curls over forwards to touch the wooden floorboards with his mouth and I bring the whip down hard upon his back. The marks from his last beating still show; raw red slices of skin war with yellow and green bruises. There is a sharp exhalation of air from his lungs, the nearest he gets to complaint.

“You deserve this, do you not?”

“Yes,” he says, the word muffled by his position.

“Stand.”

And he stands, turning instinctively to face the wall, to put his hands at shoulder height, to give me the greatest breadth of his skin. I could count his ribs if I so chose, perhaps mark each in turn with my whip. But not today.

“Face me,” I order him. “Back against the wall.” He turns, but his eyes are still lowered. “Look at me,” I insist.

He receives no one but me. Very well, then he must see me, must look into my eyes and remember what it is to be human. I will teach him with pain – the only lesson he now understands. He looks up. His expression is blank, bleak, empty. The light has gone from his life leaving only one question - “why?” Why him? Why does he still live when so many he cared about have died? Why does he not take that final step to oblivion, reject a life which has given him so much pain? I hold his gaze for thirty seconds without speaking, then raise the whip once more, scything it across the pale skin of his belly. He gasps again, his fingers rigid in his determination not to complain, not to give in. I lay the whip hard against the same stretch of flesh, and he blinks, although his eyes are still fixed on me. Again and again I strike him, until his eyes are blurred with tears and he is shaking from pain and cold. Then, at my instruction, he sinks once more to his knees, and with one final blow I turn away and leave him.

Tonight he will sleep, the pain befuddling his mind and allowing him a blissful unconsciousness. One day, perhaps, I will make him human again.


End file.
